The Boy with the Bread --- Peeta's Story
by The.Teal.Rose
Summary: Book #1 as told from the perspective of Peeta Mellark. Follows along with the chapters of the original and offers some insight into the mind of the boy Katniss is just getting to know. "She reaches in and the crowd is completely silent around me. I watch, my heart suddenly thrumming heavily as I exhale to try and calm it. All I can think is: not her. Not her. Not her…"


_"To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta  
_ _Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope."  
_ _\- Katniss_

* * *

 **The Boy with the Bread**

[The Hunger Games - _Peeta's Story_ ]

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CHAPTER 1.  
x **.** x **.** x

I wake up to see a ray of pale sunlight streaming through my window. I take a moment to observe it, blinking slowly as I admire the play of light. It's pleasant to me and somehow hopeful, even on a day like today. It looks warm and I reach up a hand to run my fingers through the stream, watching as it gives my skin a glow.

Then it suddenly disappears, the pale gray of early morning looking cold without it.

My hand falls back onto my chest and I take breath. I'm struck with the familiar scents of warm dough and sweet icing. My mouth automatically waters and forms a small smile as I'm greeted with some excitement over the one perk of the reaping - a chance to actually enjoy the fresh food my family bakes.

My father usually likes starting this bleak morning off with cinnamon sweet rolls. My stomach grumbles a little as I stir and shift to my side. I take another second to enjoy the peace and quiet before yawning widely and rising to get dressed.

I slip on my work clothes, tying an apron on as I cross the creaky floor boards of my attic room and down the rickety stairs into the main area of the house. I don't pause but continue purposefully to the bakery across the walkway outside.

It's a little chilly and overcast, the sun continuing to try and fight through the clouds.

As I pass the pigs, I hear them stir and begin to beg through the fence. As hungry as anyone else, they take every chance they can to fill their stomachs.

But they'll have to wait for the scraps at the end of the day.

Entering the bakery, the scent I caught earlier hits me with full force and I smile politely when my dad turns to glance at me, his hands busy kneading a large circle of dough.

"Better get started, son," he instructs as he looks back down at his weathered hands. "Going to be a busy morning."

I ignore the grumbling in my stomach, fully aware that breakfast will have to wait a couple hours until we have enough supply to fill the demand of customers we always get for the reaping.

I close the door, the chill from outside replaced with the sticky heat of the furnaces in the modest kitchen, and then I take it upon myself to get some cakes started.

We work silently, my father and I, able to enjoy some quiet in the earlier hours before my mother and older brothers wake to join us. I pay careful attention to what I'm doing, not allowing my mind to stray too far. A single mistake will earn me a sharp slap against the ear if my mother's keen eye notices. I might also be on the receiving end of some pretty harsh teasing from my older brothers.

While some of the cakes bake, I eagerly mix together different icings, playing with a few colors before deciding on a palette that seems to suit the festivities of today.

As I lift a brush to place a delicate stroke on a fondant flower, a knock sounds on the back door and I pause to exchange a glance with my father before he wipes the flour off his hands and crosses the room.

I chance a peak as he opens the door, catching sight of a familiar face standing on the other side.

It's Gale Hawthorne and he smiles as he holds a squirrel out to my father.

"This will go nicely in our stew for dinner," my father nods before he pauses, seeming to come to a decision, before holding up a finger and turning the corner to catch my eye.

"Peeta, will you hand me one of those loaves on the counter?"

I set my brush down and obediently nod, selecting a loaf that's still warm from the furnace and handing it over.

I then simply stand in place as I watch my old man hand it over.

Gale's brows shoot up in surprise but he grins appreciatively. "Thanks for this. It'll make someone very happy today."

I swallow despite myself and my eyes briefly lower to the floor.

"No problem. Good luck to you today," my father says before closing the door and rounding the counter again.

I don't waste any time returning to my own job as I clear my throat and try to get my mind back on track.

 _Enjoy the bread, Katniss,_ I think to myself, hoping that Gale is right and that it'll make her happy.

I glance to the squirrel my father begins to wrap and notice that it isn't one of hers. It was shot through the chest, lacking the signature skill of Katniss' marksmanship.

Ever since my father pointed out how to remarkable it is that she always gets them right in the eye, I've paid closer attention to everything she brings in.

My heart races and I have to tell myself to get a grip as I steady my hand and finish painting the first flower.

The quiet of early morning slowly grows louder as my father and I are joined by the rest of our family, pause for a quick breakfast - the cinnamon rolls are just as delicious as I imagined - then finally open the bakery.

District 12's citizens file in to purchase celebratory delicacies, some going for the cakes and others for the more savory loaves of bread. Many of their faces are solemn, but there's an undeniable hope they carry too.

There's always the chance, of course, that one of their own will be reaped, but the consolation so many fall back on is that there are thousands of names to be drawn from and that it's unlikely it'll actually be one of them.

Isn't that my own consolation as well? Unlike the poorer members of our community, I have not had to sign up for tessarae even once. It doesn't seem likely that I'll be selected either.

But someone has to be selected, right? For two unfortunate people, the unlikely will become reality.

And as always, it isn't only myself I'm concerned about. I know beyond a doubt that Katniss has submitted her name several times. She's managed to avoid it so far, but it isn't as unlikely for her. Her chances are worse than mine.

I'm nervous about today. I'm nervous every year. Nervous for her.

The morning passes in a rush and, far too soon, afternoon strikes and my mom orders me to dress for the reaping.

My parents close shop as I comb my hair back and fasten my shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles in my pants as I descend the stairs then make my way out the door and into the street.

I see other families walking silently to the square, the hope in their faces almost impossible now to see behind their nervousness.

A few of my classmates from school catch my eye and give a supportive nod. I return their gestures with a smile.

What more can we do? We're all hoping it won't be us, but that only means it has to be someone else.

In the faint breeze, the banners flutter and give some color to the lackluster emptiness of the normally bustling center of town.

I'm one of the first ones here, so I don't have to wait in a line to sign in. I dutifully verify my identity then turn to stand with the small group of sixteen-year-old boys already gathered together.

I take a deep breath, just another name in thousands. I glance to the sky again, attentively search it for the sun, and smile again when I catch sight of it still trying to break free.

As the minutes tick by, the square fills up and my group is joined by several more our age. The girls line up across a small walkway and I glance over, searching their faces a moment before my eyes settle briefly on Katniss.

She looks nervous and her eyes are fixed on the glass balls where the slips of paper with our names are written.

I turn my head and wish I could offer her some encouragement, but I'm sure she isn't even aware of my existence.

I see Effie Trinket fidget in her seat, eager to get things started I guess. She whispers with the mayor, her white teeth showing from behind the bright pink of her lips.

It's so bizarre, the fashion of the Capitol. It's pretty out there, but there's something artistic about it. Unnatural, but artistic. I can admire it in the same way I admire

one of our brightly decorated cakes.

 _That's what Effie reminds me of_ , I suddenly think. A cake. A sugary buttercream birthday cake.

The clock strikes the hour and the mayor steps up to go through the customary motions of reading the history of Panem, reminding us all of the reason for the reaping in the first place.

A solution to end war. A solution to deter citizens from rebelling. A reminder of the Capitol's might and our own smallness in comparison.

A noble sacrifice that one boy and one girl from every district are required to make.

I swallow tightly, a familiar sense of helplessness settling over me. The nerves in my body surge with a need to say or do something to show my disapproval, but I know that wouldn't be wise. I know it won't achieve anything.

My jaw locks and my mouth sets as I continue to listen to the Capitol's justifications, surrendering to the fact that I can't escape their control. Surrendering to what I can't possibly change.

I'm sure many people, like Effie Trinket, are utterly convinced of the Capitol's pure intentions. She strikes me as being genuinely enthusiastic and very hopeful when it comes to the Games.

The Capitol's citizens are probably just as enslaved as we are. In a different way, but just as helpless.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," the mayor sums up.

Repentance and gratitude. Two things I don't believe can be forced. Maybe I could understand if the Games were simply about preventing war, requiring sacrifices - though preferably willing - to keep the peace.

But I know it isn't only about that. It's a power play. It's to keep us all in our places. The young are sacrificed to feed the luxury of the wealthy. It's a punishment for our predecessors daring to try and break free from oppression.

My thoughts fall silent when Haymitch Abernathy stumbles onto the stage, very late and very drunk. People around me applaud and I almost shake my head and smile when I see how distressed Effie is by his attempt to embrace her.

The mayor looks embarrassed, probably because District 12 is now seen as a joke in these Games. Haymitch is our only surviving victor and he doesn't exactly represent the best of our people.

Clearing his throat, he motions to Effie, who eagerly steps in to take charge of the situation, grinning and brimming with enthusiasm.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Her accent is so unique and I only take a deep breath as I prepare for what comes next.

After Effie explains how honored she is to represent our District, a statement that seems noticeably less genuine than usual, she finally approaches the first glass globe and cheerfully announces, "Ladies first!"

She reaches in and the crowd is completely silent around me. I watch, my heart suddenly thrumming heavily as I exhale to try and calm it.

All I can think is _not her_. _Not her. Not her…_

Effie returns to the mic, unfolds the slip of paper, then mercilessly calls out "Primrose Everdeen!"

Which is little better than if it _had_ been her.


End file.
